Neene left for a marriage ceremony in a neighbouring village, so I think it’s safe to grant Adama’s request to braid my hair. Some days earlier, Neene and Fatou Bobo had both made it very clear that I was not to allow the children to braid my hair. “The children do not know how to braid,” “They will just play with your hair,” “You will be tired,” they said.
Adama finishes one braid and asks me to feel it. She’s attempted a style where the braid does a sort of zig-zag, the style she calls, “snake.” Another popular style is called “dwarf.” Before Adama can start the next braid, Neene returns. We’re all startled because she appears from behind, screeching for the children to stop what they’re doing! Get up! Get up! Neene picks up a dried coos stalk and starts waving it around. I try to protest. I go unnoticed. Look at that! That’s not pretty! Binta, she can’t braid. Binta doesn’t know what is pretty, what is not pretty. She will just let the children play with her hair, she will remain quiet, she will not say anything even when they climb all over her. Binta, unbraid your hair.
I obediently, silently, furiously, unbraid my hair. Rugi comes over to help me. Neene screeches, “GET UP! MOVE AWAY FROM BINTA!” and goes to smack Rugi with the dried-up stalk.
“She’s unbraiding, she’s unbraiding!” I plead. I really want nothing more than to storm off in an angry cloud, or scream “ARGH!!!” at the top of my voice, or somehow pour out how frustrated I feel. But I don't; I finish unbraiding my hair and look up. I see Alieu Sowe, Jainabou and Amadou watching me with open-mouthed stares. “Gosh,” I think, “I must be looking as furious as I feel.”
I sit and stew in silence for a bit, tuning out Neene’s attempts to explain things to me; she wants me to understand that she needed to act that way, the children cannot play with my hair. “You know the children can’t braid?”
“Yes.”
“They will just play with your hair.”
“Yes.”
“Binta, what Adama braided, it was not correct!”
“Yes, I know…”
That night after dinner Amadou says, “Binta, I hope you are not angry, what Neene said.”
“No.”
“I explained to her that you enjoy playing with the children, you will not feel tired, but you do not understand.” Neene asks, “I hope you are not angry?”
“No, I am not angry.”
“She’s angry all right!” Jainabou chimes in.
Amadou explains the reason I cannot allow the children to braid my hair. “You know, the white person’s hair and the black person’s hair are not the same.”
“Yes.”
As his explanation continues, I discover he is not referring to color or texture. Some people will, he claims, try to collect little pieces of a white person’s hair and then they will have money, a lot of wealth. They will be watching, they will see that the children are always plaiting your hair and they will send the children to cut a little of your “head skin” (I think: SCALPING?!) and you will not even know (I think: “I would notice if I’d been scalped, guess we’re not talking about that after all”) and they will bring it to the person.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes…but I do not understand what you were saying about the person wanting to get money.”
Apparently, the pieces of hair will be brought to a marabou, who will be able to make it so that the person will be very wealthy. “There was one Peace Corps before you, after he left a man paid me 350 dalasis if I would look for pieces of his hair.”
But Amadou did not find any hair.
And, okay, as creepy as that all sounds, it doesn’t seem like something that would cause any trouble to me. More of a win—win—not-lose situation. The marabou gets some money, the customer gets some happiness at the prospect of striking it rich, I lose a little hair, but not even so much that I’d notice. Amadou must sense that I’m unconvinced. He adds in a low voice, “And it is not only money. The marabous can even make it so that you will start to like someone very much. But it is not you who is choosing to like the person, it is because it has been made that way.”
“Okay, I will not allow the children to plait my hair.”
Neene smiles, pleased. “You understand?”
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